


this is where love comes to die

by figure8



Series: it's not where you come from (it's where you belong) [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, First Meetings, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are three types of people at this party. A, the ones who want to fuck him. B, the ones who want to hurt him. C, the ones who want both.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Pre-fosterverse. Bruce and Clark's first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is where love comes to die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artemine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemine/gifts).



> part of the fosterverse, but can be read as a standalone modern au, i guess. you can read it before or after the main story. it will completely change your perspective on the work you read second, but both are doable.  
> considering _i was naive_ takes place in 2015/2016, the year is 1999 here. it explains some of bruce's hang-ups about being gay, if not all. 
> 
> not beta-read. i'm, ehhh, very sorry about that. enjoy!

 

 

> "At parties I point to my body and say  
>  This is where love comes to die.  
>  _Welcome, come in, make yourself at home._  
>  Everyone laughs, they think I’m joking."  
>  — Warsan Shire

 

Bruce knows he paints a sorry picture. His Armani suit is rumpled and his hair is a mess. The rest of him is not much better. Collar undone, tie hanging low and unmade around his neck, and a trail of bruises already turning purple on his throat. He can't even remember what the guy looked like, least of all his name. What he can remember very vividly is the way his cock tasted in Bruce's mouth, the press of his hand against Bruce's diaphragm—constricting him just enough to make him see white stars when he orgasmed. Coke makes everything brighter and sharper. Bruce feels lightheaded, too awake, all the noise around him duplicated. A flash goes off—some idiot reporter, and who allowed reporters in tonight of all nights? For a very short second, Bruce realizes his mistake will be on every tabloid by tomorrow morning and panics, but it only lasts until he spots the bottle of Dom Perignon on one of the tables. The cork is off but it's full still, just waiting for him displayed obscenely like a naked woman on a silver platter. That's what he should want for his birthday, he guesses. Alcohol and naked women. That's what someone normal would want.

Bruce isn't normal. He knows that, has known that for a long time. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow. It doesn't make it any less painful, any less of a failure. He takes a long gulp of champagne directly from the bottle, wrapping his lips around the gullet. Some of his guests are eying him. Scratch that, all of them are. He recognizes every stare for what it is: there are three categories. A, the people who want to fuck him. B, the people who want to hurt him. C, the people who want both. He isn't quite sure who scares him the most. He drinks again and falls back on a sofa, stretches like a cat. The bottle is still in his hand and he spills some champagne on him, golden drops splashing his skin. He locks his blue eyes on the nearest age-appropriate pretty girl and licks it off his wrist suggestively. She'll mention it, he knows. At least to a friend, who will then repeat it to a friend. _Bruce Wayne is a flirt. Bruce Wayne is a mess_. The last one won't be a lie, but it's all the lies that brought him where he is today so he guesses what goes around comes around. It's funny, how much he doesn't actually care. He knows, on some level, that he's not doing well, and that he's in pain, but it doesn't register. It's funny, how the only thing that actually stings is that no one gives a shit. There is nothing subtle about how screwed-up he is. There is nothing secret about his endless sadness, about the anger in his shaking fists. And yet they let it slide. They let him fuck himself up to the point of no return, like the vultures they are. Ready, flying in circles around him waiting for his wilting body to turn into a corpse. No one in this room would rescue him if he was dangling from a rooftop by his fingertips. They would step on his hand, probably. There is something satisfying about being aware of it. There is a lot of satisfaction to be found in _knowing_ , Bruce has found.

The couch shifts as someone sits next to him. Bruce is not being antisocial enough, obviously. He shoots a dark glare at the intruder, only to find a boy his age staring at him curiously. The suit he's wearing isn't bad per se, but is definitely too cheap for a Wayne party. He has wavy dark brown hair, a strand of it curling cutely on his forehead, and a horrid pair of thick-rimmed glasses. He's still one of the most beautiful men Bruce has ever seen. He can't help the hot wave of arousal that hits him, burning low in his belly. The stranger is still looking at him intently.

"You wanna get out of here?" he asks finally, just the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It should sound like a cheesy come-on, but it has a genuine ring to it. It must be his voice—deeper than what Bruce expected, with a warm southern accent.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "This is my party," he remarks coolly.

"I know," the boy smiles, fully this time. It's kind of blinding. He just looks so... nice. Bruce hates nice boys. Bruce doesn't do nice boys. "So, you wanna get out of here?"

"What the hell," Bruce grunts, and he pushes himself off the sofa. "Okay, sure."

Cheap Suit offers him his hand to take but Bruce isn’t _that_ stupid. He shakes his head, grabs the other young man by his sleeve, drags him hastily away from the main ballroom, into an empty silent corridor.

Cheap Suit grins. “Where are you taking me?”

“I thought you had a proposition,” Bruce frowns. “You’re the one who suggested we leave.”

“You just looked like you needed a break,” the boy shrugs. “I’m Clark, by the way.”

“Bruce,” Bruce replies dumbly. “You knew that.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” Clark chuckles. “I can be pretty clueless, but I’m not that bad.”

“I don’t need a break. My entire life is a break. I just _had_ a break, if you know what I mean.”

Clark raises a dubious eyebrow. “You mean when you slipped away ‘discreetly’”, he makes a quote-unquote gesture with his fingers, “to have your wicked way with a male model?” Bruce freezes.

“What do you _want_ ,” he hisses, not really a question. Clark stares at him for a while before answering.

“I told you. You looked like you needed an excuse to leave. No one will miss _me_ , so I thought I’d help.”

“You don’t want to blackmail me over my alleged, err,” Bruce winces, “ _homosexual tendencies_?”

Clark shrugs again. “Not really. I’m also not really interested in selling anything to the press, before you ask.”

“Why should I believe you?” Bruce asks, but it’s mechanical. He doesn’t feel in danger. He doesn’t feel unsafe. It’s a foreign sensation, one he remembers only from old, distant times.

“Because I say so, and I never lie,” Clark says, as if that’s reason enough. “Also because I’d really like to blow you, but I’m not doing it if you think I’m some kind of thief.”

Bruce chokes on his own saliva. “I beg your _pardon_?”

“What, you rich city folks don’t do it that way? Do I need to woo you? Did I just mortally offend you with my straightforwardness?”

Adjusting his collar with one hand, Bruce glares at him. “I do not need to be wooed. I am not a _girl_.” He looks around furtively—they’re still alone. “I could—I could be persuaded. To take a second break.” Hiding his mouth with a calculatedly graceful motion of his wrist, he feigns a yawn. “This birthday party _has been_ quite exhausting after all.”

Clark smirks impishly, slips a hand under Bruce’s jacket. His hand is hot against Bruce’s flank, even through the white fabric of his dress shirt. They’re standing real close, in such proximity that when Clark whispers _Come on_ Bruce can feel his breath tickling his nose. There’s no one around, he checked, so it seems natural to just lean in and kiss Clark, press their lips together and open his mouth to drink in the warmth of shared oxygen. It’s a clumsy kiss, Bruce lightheaded from the alcohol and the drugs and Clark too cautious at first. It’s a bad kiss, technically. Bruce still wants more.

“There’s an empty office _right here_ ,” he grunts into Clark’s neck. He doesn’t have to say it twice. They stumble blindly into the room, Clark going easily where Bruce drags him, hands fisted in the other man’s vest. _Only three kinds of people_ , Bruce reminds himself. His back hits a wall with a soft thump and Clark slides his leg between his, kisses Bruce’s exposed clavicles while he’s working his pants open. Bruce is fully hard already, has been for a while. He doesn’t sleep with men often. He _never_ sleeps with men sober. Sex with women is nice, pleasant, and it satisfies the—the urge, but he always has everything under control. Men are different. He shakes when he wants them. It’s always a hazy blur, like watching his own life through a red photography filter, throat dry like a thirsty man lost in a desert. It’s terrifying. And Bruce hates being afraid.

Clark has sunk to his knees and is now face to face with Bruce’s silk-clad erection, running his nose along the soft fabric of Bruce’s boxers. Bruce shudders, his fingers tangling themselves in Clark’s dark hair. They don’t do anything for what feels like an eternity, as if Clark knows Bruce needs the quiet, needs to breathe and come down from his tower of frights. It’s ridiculous, of course. Clark doesn’t know anything. He’s a random guy who wants to fuck Bruce Wayne. It doesn’t matter that he has decided to be considerate about the whole thing.

“Come on,” Bruce urges him, low, a faint tug to his curls. He doesn’t want to think anymore.

Clark hums against him and shifts slightly so he can push Bruce’s underwear down with his slacks, follows the trail of hair that leads to Bruce’s cock and takes him in hand. He makes one simple stroke before fitting his mouth around the head, and Bruce exhales shallowly and wills himself to just fucking _relax_. His hand leaves Clark’s hair to settle on the other man’s jawline, two fingers pressing gently against his pulse point. He can feel the blood drumming right under the thin layer of skin, warm and alive.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathes out as Clark flattens his tongue and slides down as far as he can. He looks sinful, his red lips stretched around Bruce’s cock, bobbing his head so his mouth can meet the ring of his hand as it rises up. He’s stroking Bruce in a steady counterpoint to the more frantic rhythm of his tongue, and Bruce feels him everywhere—around him, but also his hot breath hitting Bruce’s pelvis, and his other hand digging into Bruce’s left hipbone. It’s so _good_. His hips buck and he mutters _Shit_ again, ready to apologize, but Clark grins around him and shoots him a mischievous look that damn near pushes him over the edge. He pulls off with an obscene pop, spit and precome glistening his bottom lip.

“You want to fuck my mouth?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, voice raw, cock so hard it hurts. “I mean—can I—”

Both of Clark’s hands leave his body completely to settle on the wall. Fleetingly, Bruce admires the firm lines of his arms. “Go on, pretty boy,” Clark smirks. He’s watching Bruce through his eyelashes, and he’s gorgeous and strong and _on his knees for Bruce_. Trembling a little, Bruce guides his cock into Clark’s open mouth, sighs contently when he sinks into its tight, wet heat. He fists his hand back in Clark’s hair and Clark’s jaw goes slack, and it’s so easy and natural to just _move_ , unrelenting and almost brutal, holding Clark _there_ as he buries himself all the way down to his throat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, pulling back a little, and Clark _whines_. “Fuck, you take it so good.” His orgasm draws closer with each deep thrust, and his movement are erratic now, all finesse lost. “Clark,” he groans, and it’s the first time he’s using the other man’s name, he realizes. He wants to warn him but it dies on his lips as he comes, and Clark just rolls with it, slurps and swallows him down like he’s greedy for it. Bruce goes limp, knees shaking, and if it weren’t for Clark’s sudden steadying grip he would probably slide to the floor. Clark presses his lips to the inside of his thigh, nuzzles there for a minute lazily before getting back on his feet, looking into Bruce’s glassy steel-blue eyes and kissing him on the mouth.

Bruce lets Clark lead the kiss while he reaches for his belt and frees him from his clothes, lets him push up against him—desperate for friction, hard and leaking against Bruce’s thigh. He sucks Clark’s tongue into his mouth and tastes his own bitterness, and when Clark moans he swallows that, too. There’s a different kind of arousal wrapping around his spine, slow and warm. No urgency, no violence, just the sobering satisfaction of having someone want him that much.

“Next time, I’m going to fuck you,” he says in a low voice. There can’t be a next time, and they’re both very aware of it. It doesn’t matter. Clark makes a needy noise and suddenly _nothing_ else matters. “Open you up on my fingers, so slowly you’ll be begging me to get my cock in you,” he continues. Clark grabs his bicep in a painful grip, rutting against Bruce’s leg.

“I don’t _beg_ ,” he rasps, and _fuck_ , his voice is _ruined_. It takes a lot for Bruce to keep his tone steady.

“Trust me, you will.” He slides a hand between their bodies, wraps his fingers around Clark’s cock. It’s hot and heavy against his palm, so unmistakably male it makes Bruce feel the need to flee and fall to his knees at the same time. “Maybe I’ll eat you out,” he says conversationally. “Tongue you open until you’re desperate. Maybe I’ll lick my come out of you when I’m done fucking you.” He whispers that last bit into Clark’s ear and that’s all it takes. The man shivers violently against him and comes, coating Bruce’s fingers and his own shirt in white. He bangs his forehead on Bruce’s shoulder, chest heaving.

“Come on,” Bruce nudges him, “I’ll lend you a clean shirt.” Now that he’s come down, he feels dirty and soiled, shame sticking to his skin. Clark offers him a lopsided grin and Bruce feels the irrational itch to punch him in his perfect teeth.

“Thanks,” Clark says earnestly, and there it is again, the southern accent.

“You’re not from around here,” Bruce remarks, cleaning his hand on a handkerchief before motioning to a door at the back of the room. “It leads to a stairway,” he explains when Clark just stares at him. “I own the building, I have a bedroom here. With a _closet_ ,” he rolls his eyes when Clark chuckles. “I told you, I’ll give you a shirt. I need a shower anyway.”

They make their way upstairs in silence. Clark’s fingers brush against his, gently, and it’s too much. He shoves his hands in his pocket.

“I’m from Kansas,” Clark offers out of the blue. “My name is Clark Kent. I’m a sophomore at Metropolis University, major undeclared. I’m thinking English lit, though. Or maybe journalism or creative writing, I don’t know. I interned at WayneTech last summer for a month, met a girl who knows some people, and she invited me here tonight.”

“And to thank her, you cheated on her with her boss?”

Clark’s eyes open wide. “Oh, no! No, you’re not her boss, she—ah, crap. We’re not together. She’s gay. She needed a male date, her parents are assholes.” He looks away, cheeks red. All that confidence he displayed earlier is gone, replaced by shy awkwardness.

“Come on, Kansas,” Bruce smiles indulgently as he unlocks a door, because he’s feeling magnanimous but also because Clark Kent sucks dick like a pro, and deserves at least some kind of recognition for that. “After you.” Clark gasps softly, impressed. It’s a big room, Bruce supposes. He shuffles through the drawers, finds a pale beige dress shirt that will go marvelously with Clark’s skin tone. “Here you go.”

“Can I just use your bathroom real quick first?”

He nods absently, sits down on the bed. He’s not drunk at all anymore, and the effects of the cocaine are slowly fading. The party is still going strong downstairs—he can hear the music from where he is. He could just… not go back down. Join Clark in the shower, keep him here, make good on his promises from earlier. There’s something about the boy. He’s good and sharp and shy, a combination Bruce doesn’t get to see often. He makes Bruce wants to break a gazillion of rules.

“Thanks for the change of clothes,” Clark says, extracting Bruce forcefully from his thoughts. He didn’t take a shower, but he did freshen up and got rid of his stained shirt. His abs look like he just walked out of a fucking ad campaign. Bruce wants to _lick_. Maybe he’s still a little bit high. Maybe Kent is just that fucking hot. Who knows.

“When are you going back to Metropolis?” Bruce asks. Clark isn’t shirtless anymore, which is a goddamn loss, if you ask him.

“The day after tomorrow, why?”

“Let me take you to dinner. Tomorrow evening.”

Clark smiles softly. “You don’t have to. I didn’t expect—”

“What _were you_ expecting?” Bruce cuts him off. “What exactly was your plan, when you first approached me? Because something tells me it wasn’t for us to end up in a random office with my pants around my ankles.”

“You just,” Clark fiddles with the hem of his shirt, “You looked sad. And alone. And it’s your birthday. I honestly just wanted to talk. Maybe kiss you,” he smirks. “I never got to wish you a happy birthday.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce says mechanically, but his throat feels dry, and he thinks he’s going to cry, which is weird. “I don’t like birthdays anyway.”

“Turning twenty-one,” Clark says, crouching in front of him, “it’s a big deal.”

“Not for me,” Bruce shrugs. “Not for people like me.” He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. Rich people. People without a family. People who are planning on dying young.

“Nah,” Clark smiles, shaking his head. “ For everyone, trust me.” He takes Bruce’s hand, intertwines their fingers. “Okay,” he says.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Okay, take me out on a date.”

“I never said it was a date.”

It’s Clark’s turn to shoot him a dubious look. “Bruce.”

“It can’t be a date, Kansas, you understand?” He hates the urgency in his voice, he hates the knot in his guts. “I have too much to loose.”

Clark raises their linked hands to his mouth, kisses Bruce’s knuckles. “I know. I know. It can still be a date, though. Bruce. Bruce, you can’t let them have everything.”

 _It’s easy to say_ , Bruce wants to tell him. He knows how shitty that would sound. He’s looking at a guy who grew up wanting men in the Bible Belt, for fuck’s sake. So he just looks away and grits his teeth.

“Listen,” Clark says. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. I’m not going to tell you how to live your life. But you asked me out, and I said yes, and if that’s still on the table, I’d like to say yes again. Whatever you want to call it. I just want to see you again.”

“Where are you staying? I’ll send a car.” Clark gives him the name of his hotel, and Bruce winces. “That’s. That’s a really bad neighborhood, Kansas.”

“I’m a student,” Clark shrugs.

“Yeah, but this isn’t Metropolis. You’re going to get killed just walking back if you’re not careful.” He shakes off the string of memories that comes with this particular topic of conversation, looks right into Clark’s eyes. “Stay the night. I’ll arrange for your things to be shipped here, we can have brunch in the morning. Just stay the night.” _No one has to know_ goes unsaid. Bruce is tired of pretending. He doesn’t want to go back to the party and mingle and play stupid. He wants to curl up in this bed with Clark’s strong body by his side and fall asleep, and wake up to the same sight he fell asleep to, and believe for just one night that this is something he can have.

Clark seems unsure. “I don’t want to impose.” He’s running his fingers on the inside of Bruce’s wrist now, soft distracting taps. “I’m not sure—”

“I’m not asking for your hand, Clark. It’s just easier for everyone.”

“Okay,” Clark says, pushing himself back up. “Okay, thank you for your hospitality, then.”

“You can thank me later,” Bruce smirks, and Clark blushes but he laughs too. _Just for one night_ , Bruce repeats to himself. Just enough for it to be good, just enough for him to feel safe and loved for a few hours. He can afford _a few hours_. It’s his birthday. And then he’ll let go.

He’ll let go.

 

He always does.


End file.
